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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688536">All This Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture'>triedunture</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Clones, Established Relationship, Gangbang, Group Sex, M/M, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:47:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688536</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Different Aziraphales from across history converge in Crowley's flat one evening. Crowley is responsible for them appearing, but only just.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>293</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All This Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This piece appeared in the Flaming Like Anything zine in spring of 2020.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the phone rang one sunny afternoon in Soho, Aziraphale expected it to be Crowley. It was almost always Crowley. The only other people who tended to ring the bookshop were telemarketers, and their calls had tapered off ever since Aziraphale had kept one on the line for over three hours, politely listening to the sales pitch and asking insightful questions only to tell the poor girl that he did not have a mortal soul, so he wasn't very interested in a life insurance policy, but thank you ever so much for inquiring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the angel was pretty certain it was Crowley on the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello dearest," Aziraphale said into the receiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ggggrkt!" came the unorthodox response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale frowned, his finger twirling along the telephone cord. "Darling?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Angel." It was definitely Crowley, albeit a bit winded. "Come quick. My flat. I've—" A loud thud interrupted him, and then the line went horribly silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley?" Aziraphale tapped the phone hook a few times. "Sweetheart?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(You're probably clever enough to have worked out from the angelic appellations that the two were entwined in the romantic sense at this point, and from the way that Aziraphale was laying it on rather thick, you can probably tell this was a relatively recent development.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A worried Aziraphale moved faster than the usual model, and so in no time at all he was at Crowley's Mayfair flat, rapping on the imposing hallway door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Crowley opened it, Aziraphale gasped. "My dear, your hair!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's hair was an absolute bird's nest, sticking up in every direction. Aziraphale had never seen it in such a state. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've been tugging at it," Crowley explained. He opened the door wider. "You'd better come in." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale did so with haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flat was a labyrinth of corridors leading into and out of open-concept abominations, and it was in one of these so-called rooms that Aziraphale found the reason for Crowley's hair-pulling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it's about to get bloody confusing, so let's be clear about what he saw: four Aziraphales. All blond of hair and blue of eye and angelic in nature. All dressed in the clothes of a different era. All turning at his entrance and eyeing him with disinterest, as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, fine, that makes five, then. Wonderful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Let us catalogue them: </span>
</p>
<ol>
<li><span>an Aziraphale wearing a white toga;</span></li>
<li><span>an Aziraphale dressed much too flamboyantly for a revolution;</span></li>
<li><span>an Aziraphale dressed in Victorian costume, cream tophat resting on his bouncing knee; and finally</span></li>
<li><span>an Aziraphale wearing a cravat that would be most commonly seen in the 1910s, which meant this Aziraphale hailed from the 1960s.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>"Hello," said the Aziraphale in the toga. The other three gave weak waves in greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our Aziraphale put his hands to his hips, turned to Crowley, and asked, "What exactly have you done?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me?" Crowley yelped. "Why d'you assume this is my fault?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it?" Aziraphale asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, yes," Crowley conceded, "but listen—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Crowley's explanation was a long and rambling one, and paper is not an unlimited resource, we shall condense his story here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In essence, the demon Crowley had been messing about with Time. He had done so before with some degree of success, and he'd foolishly wondered what else he might be able to do. Here Crowley's story got a bit murky, but Aziraphale knew him well and could read between the lines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You wanted to see if you could stop time in the bedroom, didn't you?" he demanded. Crowley had murmured something to that effect when they'd last made love, and while Aziraphale had thought it terribly romantic in the moment, he now realized it was less a tender sentiment of Crowley's and more of a personal challenge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Er," said Crowley, which confirmed Aziraphale's suspicions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gasp interrupted them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My word," said the toga-wearing Aziraphale. He had wandered over to the piano and was holding a framed selfie of Crowley and Aziraphale celebrating New Year's, kissing rather messily while the long black line of Crowley's arm obscured nearly half the frame. "What on Earth…?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly the other Aziraphales clustered about the piano to examine the photograph. (Heaven has used photography for the purposes of spying—mostly on one angel and demon in particular—for millenia, so the earlier Aziraphales were not shocked by the lifelike facsimile.)   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Does this mean—?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A dream, surely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I don't sleep!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. Angels don't get headaches as a rule but he felt today might be a special case. He clapped to get everyone's attention. "Excuse me! Hello! It appears you've all been plucked from your respective times and shoved into the present. Well, my present. Your future. We must find a way to fix this." He glanced ruefully at the framed picture, which was still being passed around. "Before we ruin any, erm, surprises."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Think that ship has sailed, angel," Crowley sighed. He pulled his hair some more. "Maybe I can return them without any memory of this? Kind of? I don't know, time is all—" He gestured vaguely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Topsy turvy?" Aziraphale suggested. "Rolly polly?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fucked up," Crowley finished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flamboyantly dressed Aziraphale broke off from the pack and minced over to Crowley's side, heels clicking along the bare concrete floor. "Pardon me, hate to impose," he said in a whisper, "but if we're already here, and things being what they are between, well, us, and if we're not going to recall this anyway, mightn't we, ah—?" He tipped his head in the direction of the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley frowned. "Go into the atrium?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, dearest," said Our Aziraphale, "he is trying to indicate the bedroom." (Having once been that Aziraphale, Ours knew what he was about.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only I don't know where it is," said the other Aziraphale with a coy little glance at Crowley through his lashes. "Perhaps you could show me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All right, that solves it," said Crowley. He crossed his arms in triumph. "There're just figments or something. The real you would never say something like that. He's from, what, 1788? You didn't like me half so much then." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well…" Our Aziraphale looked away guiltily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm afraid I did," said the Roman Aziraphale. He blushed beneath his laurels. "I've liked you, oh, for quite some time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Very much so," agreed the tophatted Aziraphale, looking forlorn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Perhaps too much." This last bit was whispered by the Aziraphale from the 1960s, who was still clutching the framed photograph and tracing the line of their joined mouths with a fingertip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stared at each in a state of shock before turning to the most current Aziraphale. "All this time? You never said!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought it was obvious, darling." Aziraphale slid his hand into Crowley's and pulled him along toward the cavern that was used as a bedroom. "Perhaps my counterpart is correct. Perhaps we should show you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But—! Don't we have more pressing things to worry about?" Crowley protested (weakly).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nothing more pressing than this!" The dandy Aziraphale clasped Crowley's free arm and called behind. "Come on, lads. No time to tarry!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, no </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I like that," laughed the Aziraphale in the toga, who followed with a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Victorian and mod versions of Aziraphale joined the parade only because it seemed polite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's bedroom looked as you would imagine it would. (Paper is precious, darlings; you must do some of the heavy lifting.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, where shall we start?" said the toga-wearing Aziraphale, already messing with the golden pin that held the white folds in place at his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Victorian Aziraphale stripped off his gloves and shoved them in his upturned hat. "Do we draw straws? Seems the civilized thing to do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't see why we should go one at a time. We're not queuing at a bus stop," Our Aziraphale said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's a bus stop?" murmured another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley made a series of put-upon noises. "I am standing right here." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The dear boy is correct," said the late-1700s Aziraphale. "We shouldn't waste time bickering when the—" He gave Crowley a sweeping look from tip to toe. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Object</span>
  </em>
  <span> of our attentions awaits."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five pairs of angelic eyes fastened onto Crowley, who was looking more like a rabbit in headlamps by the minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now wait a moment—" he said, taking a step back and hitting the edge of his rather monstrous bed. (It had been a standard double a few hours ago, but what with the recent uptick in Aziraphales it had wisely grown to accommodate.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Aziraphales waited. "Yes?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley eyed them. "You never change your hairdo, angels. I won't be able to tell who's who if you're naked."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is that a problem?" one asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well." Crowley bobbed his head side to side. "I should really keep track of you all, shouldn't I? Can't be letting one have all the fun while another gets left out." For a demon, Crowley could be very thoughtful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Victorian Aziraphale looked at the Toga Aziraphale. "I suppose we'll stay mostly clothed then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our Aziraphale nodded. "Problem solved." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the blink of an eye, they had Crowley splayed out on the massive bed. Many hands made quick work of his clothes. Crowley, being Crowley, made a token protest ("Watch it, that's designer!") before being stripped bare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Absolutely delicious," said an Aziraphale who had never before seen Crowley sans togs. "Just look at him." Several hands, all wearing gold pinkie rings, ran down the length of Crowley's lean torso, causing not a few shivers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And this." The dandy Aziraphale, bolder than the rest, took hold of Crowley's hard cock. "Pity I must wait so many centuries to see it again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley noticed the Aziraphale from the '60s hanging back as if unsure he was welcome, gaze darting toward the open doorway. It occurred to Crowley that this one had waited longer than most—not longer than His Aziraphale, of course, but that one was already well cared for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oi, angel." He held out a hand to the '60s model. "Ready?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wide eyes took him in, then softened. He took Crowley's hand, though his fingers shook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley pulled him down by the cravat into a deep kiss. The other Aziraphales assisted in divesting the angel of shoes and trousers, revealing—to Crowley's profound delight—that this version sported a cunt. The current Aziraphale did so only on special occasions like bank holidays, so this was a real treat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lay back," said Crowley, pushing this Aziraphale into the present one's waiting embrace, "and let me taste you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's very talented," Our Aziraphale told his counterpart. "You won't regret it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Crowley buried his face between that angel's legs, the Roman sort gave the others a look that said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you don't mind…? </span>
  </em>
  <span>The other Aziraphales waved him ahead, so he hitched up the hem of his toga and slotted into place behind Crowley, hard prick in hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the record, occult oils are easy to come by and can be applied with a mere thought, so we're skipping that bit. The Roman Aziraphale was free to slick his cockhead at Crowley's tight hole and push right in with a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought about doing this with you in the baths, you know," he confessed as he gripped Crowley's narrow hips. "Would you have accepted the invitation, I wonder?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's answer was a luxurious moan into their compatriot's sopping cunt. That Aziraphale cried out, clutching at the hand offered by Our Aziraphale, who held him as he rode the first throes of passion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You see?" he bussed the cunted and contented Aziraphale on the cheek. "Very talented indeed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Roman Aziraphale, being so new, was unable to last very long. He came inside Crowley with a hard thrust that shoved him even further into the '60s Aziraphale, sharp nose rubbing against his clit. A flood of angelic juices anointed his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Flip him over," said the dandy Aziraphale, already shucking his breeches and rubbing his pussy lips eagerly. "I'd like to have a seat."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you'd be so kind, old boy?" The Victorian Aziraphale led his Roman double away so that he could take his place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This feels kind of rushed," Crowley yelped just before he was silenced with a cunt atop his mouth.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Some of us," tittered the dandy, adjusting his lace cuffs, "have waited quite awhile for this." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mustn't blame us if we can't wait any longer," the Victorian said as he folded Crowley nearly in two and thrust into his dripping hole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our Aziraphale took a break from tenderly wiping a bit of drool from the corner of '60s Aziraphale's mouth to say, "Crowley is correct. We should really show him some appreciation for all he's doing." He squirmed closer to the writhing knot of bodies and worked his hand between heaving bits of flesh to grasp Crowley's neglected prick, which weeped in thanks. "There you are, darling," he said, pressing a kiss to the demon's shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his spot beneath the French revolutionary era-Aziraphale, Crowley gave a thumbs up. Our Aziraphale, feeling that reciprocation is the hallmark of deep, abiding love, took Crowley's hand and placed it atop his fly so clever fingers could find work there as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it went for Crowley: Aziraphales rutting into him, grinding against his tongue, being pulled off by his hand, and rousing from their orgasmic hazes to play with his nipples and rub against him in turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, not a bad weeknight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can we keep them?" Crowley panted during the short rest between Aziraphales riding his cock. "Just for a few weeks?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, darling." Our Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair. "We really must send them back tonight."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley pulled a face, not easy to do when one's cheek was spattered with spend. His chest, hands, belly, and the arch of one foot (best not to ask) were similarly adorned. Aziraphale in any form did enjoy making his mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you insist," Crowley said, breaking into a sharp cry as an Aziraphale bounced faster atop his prick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The present Aziraphale kissed him, heedless of the mess at the corner of his mouth. All water from the same font, he supposed. "I do. Even you cannot keep this up forever."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No?" Crowley's eyes rolled up into his head as he found his end inside a tight arse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Aziraphale confirmed, and offered his counterpart a hand in climbing off Crowley's much-used prick. Time rifts or no, he felt it best to be a good host.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine." Crowley grinned. "Just for tonight, then." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "What have you done, sweet serpent?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, nothing much." Crowley pointed to the very expensive digital clock on his bedside table whose numbers dared not advance. "Just made tonight last as long as we like."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale couldn't help but smile fondly. "Our clever boy," he said with pride, and told the others to keep at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they did. For a very long time.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me <a href="https://twitter.com/triedunture">@triedunture</a> on Twitter.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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